I don't know what's worse, Allie, worrying about him or wanting to knock some sense into that thick, over-privileged head of his.

And I'm sure he does feel the same about me, but one of us is right, and it's not the one who thinks, 'Oh, well, can't stop the homicidal madman from popping the clogs of anyone who dares whisper a word of criticism, so might as well join in the killing spree, cheerio. Oh, but if only they weren't quite so dead-looking when one is done with them. It does put one off one's supper. Well, maybe if I write some poetry that would make Emily Dickinson seem a jubilant socialite, and play a little more music by tortured moaning guitar-playing lesbians from the last coffee house of Hell, it'll seem like my problems are only slightly insurmountable.'

I mean to say. Bloody buggering bollocks.